


Nesting

by ABeckoningCat



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABeckoningCat/pseuds/ABeckoningCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark discovers what happens when Clint drinks cognac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nesting

Natasha stood, arms folded, hip thrown out to lean one shoulder in the doorway.  Every so often her head moved, eyes tracking the metronome movement of her partner as he worked the room back and forth.  Her dresser drawer was open, second from the top, and was steadily being emptied of every piece of clothing neatly folded inside, one fistful at a time. 

"Clint," she said, but he was somewhere beyond her, moving with drowsy, mechanical purpose.  She sighed.  “God damnit, Stark." 

"What did I do?", like a woozy phantom Tony was suddenly there at her shoulder, leaning to see around her and staggering slightly as his brows furrowed, eyes wide.  “Scratch that — what’s  _he_  doing?" 

"You gave him cognac." 

"I might have…" 

"You must have," she swiveled him a look, red brows drawn together in annoyance. “Because he only does this when he has cognac, and that’s exactly the reason that he doesn’t drink cognac.  And I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, because I can tell by the way you’re looking at me — _Stark_  —," she snapped her fingers until his attention came back to her, continuing smoothly, "…I can tell by the way you’re looking at me that you’ve been at it just as hard as he has." 

"We split a bottle," he duckbilled his lips and blew air through them, dismissive.  “Kid stuff." 

"What  _size_  bottle?" 

"Remember… the black one, on top of the cabinet—" 

"The fucking  _magnum_?" 

"I let him keep the bottle." 

“ _Jesus Christ_."  Her arms hugged more tightly to her ribs as she turned back to the scene.  Clint had cleaned out the second drawer, neatly closed it, and was more than halfway through emptying the third.  Each time his hands were full he turned and walked solemnly to her bed, tossing everything down into an ever growing pile.  Natasha sighed, beleaguered, and tried not to flinch as Tony staggered forward into her shoulder. 

"I’m going to say it again: what is he doing?" 

"He’s making a nest."  She heard the man choking on a laugh almost before the words were out of her mouth, and turned just enough to give him a seething look, flashing the whites of her teeth.  " _DON’T_." 

"You’re fucking kidding me," his eyes were welling with joy.  It was just too beautiful.  “Is he really?  This can’t be happening.  Wait… I have cameras in this room, I need to turn them on —" 

"He doesn’t know what he’s doing," she groused.  “This is why he doesn’t drink cognac." 

"This is fascinating.  It’s like watching a nature program."  Tony caught his breath, as if the most precious thought had just occurred to him.  One hand gripped the redhead’s shoulder. “Natasha… does he…. does he do a little dance to impress you?" 

"Oh my God." 

"With… with the head-bobbing, and—" 

"Please stop." 

"Does he throw up for you?" 

"Well, after  _tonight_ —ah—- _Clint_ , no no no, not the bras, the bras don’t need to go in—-"  She hustled from the doorway, divesting the archer’s splayed hands of a tangle of lace and elastic, holding them protectively to her stomach.  He looped back to the bureau again, saying not a word.  When she turned back to the doorway, however, she was met with the lens of Stark’s cell phone camera, held expertly at the end of one outstretched arm, his chin tucked down in focus.  He made a little  _move over_  gesture with one hand as she got in his way. 

"Tony, put it down—" She leaned to intercept him and he feinted to avoid her before quickly leaning back the other way.  She heard the telltale shutter-click, and his face lit with a grin. 

"Perfect.  God, he’s concentrating  _so hard_.  What’s he going to do next?" 

Natasha’s shoulders sagged as she resumed her weary lean in the doorway.  There was no point in trying to stop either of them.  “Just watch." 

Having finally emptied the last of the bureau drawers, Clint returned to the bed and stooped forward, beginning to arrange the pool of underwear, lingerie and camisoles into a careful pile; it was clear he had some kind of preference for how the items should be placed — soft items to one side, anything with an underwire or boning to the other — but even Natasha, who had seen it just often enough to be resigned, had never been able to figure it out.  He liked the panties on the bottom, that’s all she knew. 

"And now?" Tony asked, lowering his camera arm. 

Without prompting, Clint positioned himself at the foot of the bed, eyes already blearily half-shut, and tipped forward until he dropped face-first onto the pile, not unlike a felled tree.  And there he lay, legs and arms splayed limply, evidently unconscious.  Natasha stared a moment longer before unfolding her arms.

“Aaaand he’ll be there until morning." 

"What, that’s it?"  Stark looked genuinely robbed.  “Anti-climactic.  Really, that’s all?" 

"Show’s over," she shrugged, reaching for Tony’s shoulders and turning him around the opposite way, giving him a propelling push into the hall.  “Time to go find Pepper.  Sleep it off." 

"I’m so disappointed.  I was hoping he’d… pee on it, set it on fire, _something_." 

"Sorry to disappoint you." 

"He doesn’t even strip naked first?" 

"No," she sighed, trying to wedge the door shut after him.   _Not unless there’s tequila._


End file.
